


Disposable

by heldor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Come Marking, Dirty Talk, Facials, Hair-pulling, M/M, Prostitution, Rentboys, Shame, Teenage Winchesters, Underage Character, Underage Sex, Weechesters, teenage dean, truckstop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:08:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heldor/pseuds/heldor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knows by now that "I'll be back in a week" means John will be back in two, and he's already learned how to pay the rent. On one cold night Dean does the duty of the older son.</p><p>(Teenage rent-boy!Dean AU. Dean is 14, nearly 15, don't bother reading if underage squicks you out)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disposable

“Dean, what are you doing?” It’s a little after ten, and Sam’s supposed to have been asleep for half an hour already, so when Dean turns he has his strict face on.

“Dishes. Go to sleep.” His sleeves are rolled up, and he’s standing in his socks on the bathroom rug, rinsing off plastic cups under the lukewarm water. Sam makes a huge smile; the kind kids only make when an authority figure is wrong or, better yet; _stupid_.

“They’re _disposable_ cups, Dean. You don’t _have_ to wash them. That’s the whole _point_.” Sam is ten years old, standing in the bathroom door rubbing his belly with his hand under his pyjama shirt, but he tries desperately to be the same age as his brother. It’s no-go territory, though, since Dean is coming up on fifteen fast, but already acts like he’s in his mid twenties. He thinks, for a moment, about how to explain to his little brother that disposable doesn’t mean free; that when they have no idea how long it will be before dad’s back Dean doesn’t want to throw away things they’ll need to buy again later, with money that Dean doesn’t have left. He decides to go for a different tact, instead.

“Yeah, well, it’s bad for the environment idiot. They’re still good- we only drank soda out of them one time.” Or... two or three; Dean isn’t sure how many times he’s washed them.  He knows Sam did a project on pollution a few schools back, and so he isn’t wholly surprised when Sam pinches his lips together, deep in thought, before deciding that Dean _isn’t_ being a moron after all.

“Oh. I guess that’s true. Well, then- why didn’t you-“

“You can’t wash a paper plate, dummy, so don’t even say it.” Turning back to the sink. Not that he hasn’t tried, but they get the cheap kind, that turn to mush if they get more than a little wet and can’t hold up the weight of a piece of pizza without folding in half. Instead, they just eat a lot of food straight off take-out wrappers laid flat on the table. Sam frowns, and makes a point of not looking at Dean, kicking his toe against the bathroom doorframe.

“I wasn’t going to,” he says, a whine in his voice.

“Go to _bed_ , Sam.”

“ _You’re_ up.”

“I’m older. Stop kicking the door, the neighbours’ll call the desk guy on us.” Dean’s walking towards Sam now, rolling his sleeves back down, crowding his brother out of the bathroom; herding sheep. He’s a dog with a flock of one, and he somehow manages to get Sam into his bed without touching him once. Sam’s at this age now where he’s getting an attitude about being told what to do all the time by his big brother, but he’s smart enough to realise he’s going to have to do what he’s told eventually. So it’s surprisingly easy to get him to behave; he rushes to do what he _will_ be told to do, before he’s told to, so he can act like it’s his choice. Dean is kind of in love with this phase, though he’s sure Sam will grow out of it in a matter of weeks and go back to whining and shimmying out of his blankets every ten minutes.

Sam doesn’t sleep well when dad’s not home; he spends half the night kneeling on one of the chairs from the table, so that he can look out the window without having to keep on his feet. He rests his arms on the sill, the net curtain hanging over his head like a bridal veil, and that’s how he falls asleep; waking up every time a car pulls through the parking lot and shines its headlights over his eyelids. Dean’s just about big enough now to be able to drag him into his bed without waking him up too much, though it’s a struggle; Dean still needs another growth spurt to be man-sized and Sam’s getting bigger every month. He usually drops for the count by around two or three AM- that’s when he gets into that deep sleep-of-the-dead little kid sleep. But that’s too late for what Dean has planned, and so he tucks Sam into the bed and picks up the motel’s cordless phone from the table, putting it on the nightstand beside Sam’s bed. His brother isn’t stupid; he knows what it means.

“Are you going out?” he asks, rubbing his cheek against the starchy motel pillowcase, and Dean nods.

“Yeah, so you gotta be extra good, ok? If you make a noise and the motel guy comes round, you’re _toast_.”

“Because I’m not supposed to be on my own.” Dean twists his lips; it’s a fact that he doesn’t make a point of bringing up with Sam, but of course his brother knows.

“That’s right.”

“But it’s ok for you.”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re older.” Dean can tell that these pointed, obedient, responses are leading to something, and he doesn’t like it.

“ _Yes_ , Sam. Go to sleep.”

“But when you were my age Dad left _you_.” Sam’s voice is petulant, pulls out the ooh in you, but Dean can hear the edge of genuine sorrow under it. This isn’t something he wants to go over with Sam now- the fact that Dean at ten was not the same as Sam at ten; it’s a point of pride for him, but Sam’s so set on being as old as his brother that he won’t understand that getting to be young is the gift Dean works hard to make sure he gets to keep.

“It’s different,” he says, sitting on the edge of his own bed. The sheets are a tangled mess; they don’t let the maid in to pull them up, “I mean- people don’t mind so much if there’s two kids, because I can watch out for you.”

“And I can watch out for you!” Sam grins big, and Dean gives him a smile before shoving his smiling face down into the bed, rough housing him a little.

“Like I need to be watched by a punk ass like you!” Sam’s laughing even as he complains, his sheets coming untucked from the mattress as they play-fight.

“Owwwww!” he moans, but the pain is put somewhat into question by the fact that the word is made shaky by his laughing, “Quit it, jerk!”

“Bitch!” Dean spits with a grin, finally getting off him and jerking him around as he tugs the sheets back into place, making Sam laugh even more. He takes a deep breath and Dean sees the wrestle has had the intended effect; the peak of energy has gone out of Sam, and he looks ready to settle into sleep now he’s gotten a moment of his brother’s full attention. “Ok, I gotta go out. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. ‘Till then— _anything_ happens, you call Pastor Dan, and if he doesn’t answer, you call Uncle Bobby, ok?” Sam nods, “the numbers are here, if you forget.” He puts the paper under the phone, even though Sam’s had the numbers memorised for years. “Pastor Dan’s closer, but Uncle Bobby stays up later,” he says with a grin. Sam and he both know that Bobby pretty much never sleeps. They’re too young to think of the reasons, and instead it’s a source of fun for them. Sam nods, snuggling down into his blankets.

“Where are you going?” he asks, already sounding sleepy; the question has a whining tone to it; he doesn’t like being left alone, and Dean would do anything to stay with him.

“I gotta work,” he says, quickly appending- “for dad. He wants me to check some stuff out, I won’t be long.” Sam doesn’t look happy, so Dean reaches out and ruffles his hair, “it’s safe, don’t worry- no monsters, I just gotta look at something. He called me about it earlier. Don’t worry.” He hopes that repeating it will drill it into Sam’s head, but he can see that Sam’s still not pleased.

“Can I come?”

“ _No_. Sam, you have school tomorrow. If you fall asleep in class again your teacher’s gonna be _pissed_ , and you know what’ll happen if she wants dad to come in.” Sam nods, and Dean finally stands up, trusts that he’ll stay put, and picks up his coat. He wants to wear the leather jacket dad left behind, but it’s too big on him; it makes him look like an orphan from a movie. For a while he kidded himself into thinking it made him look older, but he knows the truth is that the over-sized coat makes him look far younger than his years and he needs to look as old as he can tonight. Instead, he picks up his green combat jacket and tugs it on. It’s still pretty new; army salvage, and it’s actually his size, which was a small miracle when they found it.  The dye is still fresh and dark, the seams still neatly pressed. There’s a small hole in the elbow, where he fell chasing a werewolf, but the blood washed out and it doesn’t really show. He’s seem similar jackets in department stores for a hundred and fifty dollars, and his cost twenty bucks, so he loves it all the more because it’s proof that he’s not some idiot who’ll get taken for a ride. It’s not the warmest coat in the world because it’s intended to be worn over three layers of uniform, but motels never have the best heating so he’s used to being cold enough that it’s fine for him. A Winchester is tough; a little cold won’t hurt him.

He’s almost out the door before he thinks to turn back and add, “Sam- just... don’t tell dad about this, ok? I was supposed to do it after school, but you stayed back for that mathletes thing.” Sam bites his lip and nods, and Dean smiles as he slips out of the door, locking it behind him.

 

 

He feels bad about lying to Sam, but he knows that the only way to stop his little brother from whining to dad about Dean leaving him home alone is to make him think that it’s his fault. He knows that Sam isn’t old enough yet to not tell out of compassion; sometimes the idea of getting Dean into trouble is all the encouragement Sam needs to tell on his brother, but if there’s a chance it would get himself into trouble Sam should stay quiet.

                Because he can’t have John knowing about this trip. Whatever else happens, John can never know that Dean is slipping the motel key into the pocket of his jacket and crossing the parking lot, putting up the collar of his jacket to keep out the wind as he half-jogs down the street.

 It’s early January; just a couple of weeks away from Dean’s fifteenth birthday and the air is bitterly cold. He wants to get inside as quickly as he can, wants to go back to the motel and curl into bed; he’s tired, and he has to be up at 6:30 to make sure Sam’s ready for school, but that desire will only help make him get his work done faster.  He’d marked his target on the way home from school last week, just a couple of days after John had gone off searching for a Grine two towns over.  He knows the drill.

Then, he’d still had a hundred dollars in folded twenties in the box underneath his mattress. Then, John had said he’d be back by the end of the week and not to worry, but it’s been twelve days since then, and now the box is empty apart from five dollars made up of the change in Dean’s wallet.  He tries to budget. He tries to make it stretch, but even eating five dollar pizzas from Little Caesars the dollars still seem to slip away. Sammy needs a dollar for lunch every day, and even if Dean skips lunch altogether Sam will want a snack while they’re walking home, and he can’t say no to him- it’s not so much that he’s a pushover when it comes to his kid brother, more that he doesn’t want him to grow up thinking that they’re poor. It’s the same reason that if Sam cries about every other kid having some stupid trading cards, or sneakers that light up when you run, Dean will break into the food money to try and get it for him. When they move ten times a year it only seems fair to not make the kid work any harder than he has to to fit in.

They’re _not_ poor- not as far as Dean’s concerned- not when dad’s around. They always have money for food, and they always have clothes that fit them. Sometimes they’re a little too big, or they’re well-worn and over-washed, but that’s fashionable now anyway, and besides they both wear it like a choice, rather than a hardship, so they don’t get made fun of for it. They leave town too fast for anyone to know their lives beyond the superficial, or to see that the shirt that’s too tight on Dean today is too big on Sammy in six months, and Dean doesn’t stop to think that everyone else’s parents provide clothes and food _and_ a house which isn’t the back seat of a car, pay bills greater than “one tank of gas and a bag of cheetos” pay taxes and worry about college funds. Neither of them have a lot of toys, but Dean never really wanted them anyway. They used to have a bucket of Legos in the back seat, and Sam still likes them, but Dean’s favourite pastimes have always been reading the map while John smiles at his attempts at route planning, getting to sit in the front seat and being put in charge of the radio or John nodding and smiling as he pays the cashier at the gas station in exact change, and being given a cherry sucker from the jar by the register for free because the lady likes his big smile when he gets the sums right. He learnt multiplication by figuring out sales tax on ammunition.

 

So they need money. Because Dean is only fourteen and he doesn’t know what to do when someone hands him a hundred dollars for a week’s bills and he has to make them last for two. They don’t have a refrigerator or an oven, so even though he theoretically knows it’d be cheaper to cook stuff himself, and make leftovers to eat for the week, they have to live on take-out, which is expensive even when one of them’s a little kid and the other forces himself to eat as little as he can. He’s beyond the stage where having to keep their bills small surprises him, and he saves wherever he can from the very first day John leaves (it’s better to be able to hand dad back twenty dollars if he comes home on time than go hungry the second week), but yesterday the motel manager had finally caught him and said that if they were planning on staying another week they’d need to hand over another hundred and fifty dollars, and Dean, ever the dutiful son, had only raged at John inside of his head rather than outloud for not thinking to pay for the extra week, just in case. Dean and Sam have learned by now that “a week” nearly always means two, but apparently John still hasn’t picked up on it. Dean could call Uncle Bobby- he’s sure the old man would wire him the money for the rent, just until dad comes off the hunt and can pay him back, but he won’t beg. Two things dad told him a real man never does; he never wastes time praying to a God that ain’t listening and he never goes begging if he wants to be seen as a grown man. Winchesters don’t beg, so Dean can’t ask. Dad wouldn’t like having to face Bobby again knowing the other man had had to pay his kids’ way; that John couldn’t provide for them and needed another man’s help, and Dean doesn’t want to stop seeing Uncle Bobby because _he_ couldn’t look after Sam right.

Dean learned, though- he learned a year and a half ago what he can do when the money runs out. When they were both kids, motel owners would smile and shrug and agree to bill dad when he got back, but no one trusts a teenager not to be a lying scoundrel at his core—not even when they have Dean’s big, honest eyes and hopeful smile. He met a boy a couple of years older than him a while back who explained to him what was what. That’s why, when he saw the bar with the neon signs on the front last week, he noted its address for later; just down the street from a refuelling stop for trucks.

 

It doesn’t look that different to any other bar, but Dean is starting to get a feel for the kind of place where he’ll be allowed to hang around and the kind of place where they’ll laugh and shove him away. Given dad’s line of work getting a fake ID hadn’t exactly been hard; Dean had been putting together fake warrants and FBI badges since he was thirteen. A license had meant a couple of hours scanning in dad’s on the computer and tweaking it; it’s better than the junk he’s seen some of the seniors flashing in the hallways at school; at least Dean’s has his own picture on it. He still has to deal with the fact that his face is clearly only just past being a kid, but he doesn’t mean to be in the bar long enough for it to matter.

There’s no bouncer on the door checking ages, and as Dean enters he finds it crowded and smokey. There’s music playing so loud that the talk in the bar is just a rumbling over the air; _Gimme Shelter_ by Grand Funk Railroad. He recognises it from one of Dad’s tapes. It used to be one of Sam’s favourites because of the intro- whenever it used to come on Sam would stand up on the backseat and grip onto dad’s headrest so he could stamp along to the scrapes and jingles until John stopped laughing and yelled at him to cut it out. He’d wriggle in his seat instead, and Dean finds himself tapping his hand against his thigh as he leans against a pillar on the side facing away from the bar. He’s still not very good at this, but he unzips his jacket and ruffles up his hair; licks his lips as his stomach starts to churn. He shrugs his shoulders forwards, curling in on himself to make himself look as small and unthreatening as possible before he glances around the room.

It’s mostly men; rough looking guys in frayed vests and greasy trucker caps. For good measure, he tucks his thumb into one of his belt loops and tries to look like he knows what he’s doing; like he’s waiting for someone, but inside his guts are twisting. He tries to be obvious and discrete in equal measures; he’s half in the shadow even as he curls his hips forwards. He’s learnt that no one likes to be the guy everyone sees taking the twink into the bathroom for a fifty dollar blowjob and he’d really like to work inside tonight.

The first time he got down on his knees for a man had been eight months after his thirteenth birthday. He’d told himself it would be nothing; he’d had a few clumsy fumbles with girls whose parents still thought them young enough to not need chaperoning, and he’d decided sex would be something he’d enjoy. The idea of doing it for money had been appealing; quick and fun. He’d thought it would be the same as Pretty Woman, maybe- that some hot woman in her mid twenties would pull up to the curb and he’d help her with her car before she took him back to her hotel room and they rocked each other’s worlds before she handed him a thousand dollars. He’d been wrong. The first time had been with a man in the bushes behind a public restroom in a park, exclaiming over how young and pretty he was. Dean had no idea what he was doing- had only started experimenting with himself and his hand a little while before, but the chubby guy had done most of the work for him, thrusting into Dean’s throat, tight with nerves and the sick feeling in his gut, heart thumping that they might get caught, until Dean choked and the man came. He hadn’t said much after, just shoved thirty dollars into Dean’s hand and left, but it had been the first. It had been the start. He’d told himself it would get easier now.

It hasn’t, but Dean has gotten better at pretending it has. Now gets his money laid out where he can reach it before he touches skin, and he smiles a brittle smile as he drops to his knees.

 

He stands around for maybe twenty minutes before someone locks eyes with his, and he moves one eyebrow in a challenge; an unspoken question. The guy is in his mid-thirties; full head of hair, and he doesn’t nod, he just moves his eyes down and then back to Dean, who jerks his head toward the bathroom before pushing off the wall and wheeling away. The man follows moments after him.

                Inside the bathroom it’s fluorescent-light green. It brings out every freckle on Dean’s face and leaves him looking sickly as his john enters, rubbing his left hand; probably nervous, but he could be tweaking; Dean’s only hooked up with a guy on drugs twice, but he doesn’t want to do it again. It’s a danger he’s learned just as he’s learned to stay on dad’s right, not his left, when they’re scouting a building, to aim for the head first, then the heart, when shooting a monster he’s not sure of how to kill, as he’s learned to melt silver and pack buckshot and a thousand other things that will do him no good here and now in this bathroom.

“How much?” the guy asks, his voice clear but fast; just nerves, then.

“Fifty,” Dean says, walking along the line of stalls, “just the mouth, money up front.”

“You don’t-“

“Not here and now, sweetheart.” He knows what this guy wants; had known it as soon as he saw his gaze fall from Dean’s face to his waist, sizing him up. The guy purses his lips, but nods, and pulls out a roll of bills in a cheap clip to count out two twenties and a ten, which he holds up in two fingers so that Dean has to step close enough to him to take it that he gets his wrist grabbed. Instinct makes him jerk away, but he already has the bills closed in his fingers, so he relaxes and instead tilts his head to a stall.

 

 

The guy wants to kiss him, and Dean lets him. He keeps his mouth closed and tilts his head away so that the sloppy lips fall on the corner of his mouth, his throat, as he gets backed up into the single piss-stinking stall. The guy’s letting his hands trail all over Dean’s body, and so he pulls back more forcefully and presses a smile onto his face as he licks his lips to remind the man what they’re here for; letting perfectly straight white teeth show for just a second before he slips gracefully to his knees, already undoing the confederate belt buckle that’s holding the guy’s jeans up and disregarding what he might be kneeling in.

“Oh, fuck-“ the guy drops his head back against the stall door as Dean gives him a few quick strokes of his loose fist to get him hard before he takes a breath, works the spit into his mouth and slides his lips around the thick length of the man, swallowing him down with practiced skill. He feels hands fisting in his hair; he keeps it short to avoid that sort of thing, but it’s been a few weeks since John set a chair on top of a towel on the floor of a motel bedroom and set the clippers to his and Sam’s hair, so it’s getting a little length to it again. His brother makes too much of a fuss anyway; he thinks it makes them look like freaks to have buzzed hair. Dean makes it clear that he doesn’t want monsters having anything to grab, but the type of monsters he most wants to have nothing to grip hold of is the kind he’s currently supplicating in front of.

He opens his mouth a little as he goes down, tongue swirling against the underside of the guy’s cock- he doesn’t go all the way to the base, just to the point where it hits his throat and then he tightens his lips to pull up, tilting his jaw as he does, enough that he comes off the end of the guy’s dick with an audible pop before putting out his tongue and lapping at him. He has his eyes tightly closed as he works, looking down, breathing through his nose, full of the smell of unwashed laundry and fried food that’s coming out of the man’s every pore. He’s moaning now, but Dean has no interest in making this last; he’s good, he knows that, but he’s not about to draw out the pleasure or tease; his favourite part is his least favourite part; when the guy comes, because it means it’s over and he can wash his mouth out.

He feels a sharp tug on his hair and he gasps in pain around the guy’s dick. It makes him open his eyes and pull back, to issue a warning.

“Do that again and I’m gone,” he says, voice thick, and the guy instantly releases him, holding his hands up to show they’re empty; they’re ingrained with motor oil, the nails grimey, and Dean gives a little nod before returning to his work. This time, when he feels the cock reach his throat he furrows his brow and swallows, pushing deeper, forcing himself to take long, slow, shallow breaths until he finds he no longer can, and the guy is cursing in pleasure. Dean risks a glance up, and sees that his hands are splayed out against the stall door with the effort of not grabbing him again, and he ducks a little longer, until he gags, and pulls up with a huge gasp of indrawn breath. He does it again, until he’s almost dizzy with the need to breath, swallowing steadily so that his throat contracts around the guy’s length, before he pulls up, hollows his cheeks as he moans a vibration around the cock in his mouth and bobs his head, suckling. The guy’s swearing takes on a different tone, and Dean knows what comes next. He slows his licking just a little as he feels the guy’s cock twitching, putting his hand around the base and gently squeezing, so that his lips meet his fist, and he feels spurts of hot salty cum filling his mouth. He manages not to gag, but as soon as the guy is done Dean turns and spits out his load into the toilet.

                He gets to his feet as fast as he can in the confines of the cubicle; he feels too vulnerable on his knees, and he lets the guy tuck himself away into his pants without Dean’s assistance. He has no desire to touch the man again now that his work his done; he just wants him to step aside so that he can get out and start the cycle again.

                “Three hundred dollars,” the guy gasps, grabbing Dean by the arm, “if you let me fuck you. Three hundred, how does that sound?” Dean pauses; it’s all the money he needs and more, especially on top of the fifty he already has. It would pay for the motel rent. He could buy the new binder Sam’s needed since some older kid drop kicked his last month. He could buy hot dogs, and Heinz ketchup instead of store brand generic. They could rent a movie and Sam could feel like a normal kid for an evening. They could have crackers and peanut butter while they watch it and they could have chocolate milk before they go to bed. Dean could get new sneakers that don’t have a hole in the sole to let in melt-water when the snow turns to slush.

But he doesn’t want to do it; he really, really, doesn’t want to do it, and he knows it’s the most selfish thing he could do when he shakes his head and says no. His body is just a shell; he knows that well enough from all the ghosts he’s sent down, all the stories he’s heard of demons possessing people. It doesn’t matter what gets done to it, it’s not _him_. You _have_ a body, you _are_ a soul. He read that somewhere once. Maybe in an ethics class, or English. Sometime at school; it had stuck with him, because in their family business he’d known it instantly to be true. It shouldn’t matter what happens to a shell, but all he can think about is the pain, the shame, the sick-feeling of disgust, and it’s bad enough now, his mouth salty and bitter. So he takes an extra ten that the guy slips into his hand and he squeezes past him out of the stall, their bodies brushing against each other before he waits for the john to leave. Once he does, Dean takes himself to the row of sinks and runs the water for a moment before shoving his head under the faucet, filling his mouth with water; swishing and spitting, swishing and spitting, before he shoves his hand against the soap pump, gathering a pool of liquid soap on his fingers and then shoving it into his mouth to scrub his fingers over tongue. It makes him gag; it’s sour and sharp and it burns his throat, but it’s better, still, than the alternative. He puts his open mouth back under the stream of water for a long moment until he stops tasting bubbles and then scrubs his hands before ripping up a handful of paper towels to dry off.

He leaves the bathroom like nothing’s happened, but there are eyes on him, and he knows when two bartenders look at him and then turn to each other that the john had made too much noise, so instead of taking up his position by the pillar he heads straight towards the door without so much as pausing, as though it were his intention all along.

By the time he reaches the street his face is burning, despite the devil-may-care attitude he’d been projecting. He feels shame deep in the pit of his belly, but also fear; he’s not sure how he’s going to make another hundred and fifty dollars now that the bar is closed off to him and the temperature is dropping. Maybe he should have let the guy fuck him after all. He needs a hundred and fifty for the motel, he needs a dollar for Sam’s lunch, two for his at the high school, but he can go without if he has to. He has about five dollars left from what dad gave them, and sixty- with the addition of the tip- from the john. He needs ten dollars for dinner tomorrow, maybe less if he doesn’t eat much. There are three slices of white bread left, so maybe he can convince Sam that a peanut butter and jelly sandwich qualifies as dinner; that way it’s a free meal. No matter how he looks at it he needs at least another hundred, and the night isn’t getting any longer, so he folds up the thin canvas of his collar and heads up the road toward the truck stop.

It’s almost midnight, and the wind is getting more and more bitter; it tastes damp in his mouth now, like when you go into the cold-room in the back of a bodega to get milk or juice. The flavour of cold, mixed with the faint smell of muddy footprints and hard-work sweat. He’s fourteen years old, and he wants to go to bed. He had gym in the afternoon; sprints back and forth across the school gymnasium, and he’s tired. His head hurts from the cold. He wants to go sit down on the sofa, put on the tv and doze in front of an action movie until he hears a key in the lock and gets woken up by dad coming home.

Instead, he walks under the high neon sign that declares “CONVENIENCEVILLE TRUCK AND REST STOP, SINCE 1976” and tries to gauge where will be the least out of the wind to stand.

There’s a group of women beside a breezeblock wall that designates the beginning of the rest area; one is sat on top of a wooden picnic table, the others gathered around her. They’re wearing short leather jackets, heels, short skirts and no pantyhose despite the freezing weather, their legs splotchy with cold. He’s used to seeing other prostitutes glaring at each other and trying to assert ownership of their own patch, but these three seem to know each other and two of them are sharing a cigarette. He guesses they all look different enough to attract their own niche of clientele; a blonde, a redhead, and a pretty Asian girl with big painted-red lips and yesterday’s eyeliner. They give him a dark look as he comes nearer to their spot, but he already knew he wouldn’t be able to join them. He isn’t a prostitute; a habitual seller of his body, a woman making ends meet, he’s a rent boy; he’s a man’s shameful secret lusting desire. His face is barely more than a kid’s; even other hookers don’t want his air of disgrace around them, and he walks over to the grey faux-stone clad bathroom block and he takes deep breaths, wishing he had a pack of cigarettes, or gum; anything. Something to keep his hands busy, or to distract him in any small way; give him the look of having a purpose for being here. Although it might affect their profits, being in a group will protect the other girls; not just from a bad customer, but from the police. They’re a group of girls hanging out, if questioned; he is a teenager who ought to be tucked up in bed.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and zips his jacket to the throat; there’s no pretence of trying to look alluring anymore; he can’t fight his body’s impulse to maintain body heat.

He gets a john pretty quickly; a sloppy-looking trucker carrying a wash bag, fresh from the shower block. He outright laughs at Dean’s request for fifty, and he ends up getting haggled down to thirty, despite his steadfast rule that he doesn’t haggle. He wants to go home. He’d rather work more often for less money, but in a short time, than less often, for more money, over a long time. The guy doesn’t last long, and Dean goes through the ritual of washing out his mouth again when he goes. He’s inside just long enough to get the chill out of his bones before he goes back out, and it feels like the temperature’s dropped another five degrees in the ten minutes he spent indoors. A glance at his watch lets him know that it’s getting on for a quarter to one, and he scruffs a hand through his hair, blinks the grittiness out of his eyes and shuffles foot to foot to stay awake.

 

One o’clock passes, one thirty; he can’t feel his fingers, even though they’re stuffed into his pockets, he can’t feel his nose, or the tips of his ears, and every breath makes his lungs burn as he breathes into his collar to try and breathe less ice into his chest.

 His legs are icicles inside of his jeans, and he’s outright stamping his feet now to stay warm. By two thirty he wants to slam his head against the wall. He should have taken the three hundred. He could have been asleep two hours ago if he’d taken the three hundred. He’s stupid, stupid, stupid. He’s a whore, but worse, he’s a _stupid_ whore, and he tilts his head back- ‘ _please_ ,’ he thinks, to some unseen force, ‘ _please_.’ He’s tired, he’s hungry, he’s worrying about Sam, alone in the motel room, he’s terrified that John might come home after all and find Sam alone, Dean gone, and be waiting for him when he comes back in. What would he tell dad, in that scenario? The truth? _You didn’t leave enough money so I did what I had to._ Throw a handful of money into his face, let John feel the burn of shame for once. Not on his life. He’d lie, say he was at a party, say he got bored, went to get a soda, try out his fake I.D at a bar. He’d get the beating of his life, but dad wouldn’t know.

Fuck. He should have taken the three hundred.

 

It’s almost three when another guy does more than skirt around him in order to take a piss in the bathroom. Dean is desperate, freezing, exhausted, so when the guy mutters “Fuck?” he nods, frantic, teeth chattering, and follows the guy into the shower block, his whole body shaking.

                “How much?”

                “One-fifty,” he says, voice obliterated by the strength of his shivers. The guy laughs.

                “seventy five.”

                “One fifty.” His voice is firmer now, and the guy shakes his head.

                “Seventy five.”

                “You want to fuck me, it’s a hundred and fifty dollars.” He tries to use the same tone dad uses when he’s staring down a monster; absolute certainty, no fear; make them think you’re sure that you’re in control.

                “You’re about to pass out; you think I don’t see that? You’re desperate. I think you’ll take seventy five.” Dean fights not to snarl at him, but the guy just smirks, “or I could always talk to the manager, tell him I’m worried there’s a kid lost back here. You’re what, thirteen?”

                “Eighteen.” He grits out the transparent lie, and the guy smirks.

                “Maybe you are, huh? Either way, I’m not the one selling his ass at three am, right? I’ll go up to ninety, or I’m gone.”

                “Fine,” Dean spits, not making eye contact, and the guy grins at him.

                “Would you take eighty?”

                “You said ninety, I took ninety; don’t fucking push your luck, ok? I said one fifty, I’m already doing you a favour, you cheap bastard.” The guy just laughs, and casts his eyes over Dean’s body as though he were already naked.

                “Fine, fine. Get your clothes off, I don’t have all night.”

 

Dean grits his teeth as he unbuckles his belt and opens his jeans, then shrugs out of his jacket, too, when the guy motions that he wants to see more flesh. In just a t-shirt goosepimples come up on his arms in the tiled room, but he ignores it as he turns back to the man and holds out a condom. No matter how much he needs the money, on this point he won’t be moved; he knows this guy isn’t going to be careful with him, and he also knows that the kind of guy willing to fuck a stranger isn’t the type to be a trustworthy sexual partner.

                “Put that on,” he says, and his voice brooks no argument. The man seems to realise it, and he squeezes his shaft gently as Dean looks around for anything he can use as lube. Luckily some forgetful trucker has left a nearly-empty tub of aqueous cream; a generic pharmacy label on the front that’s almost washed off. Dean thanks whatever god there might be for eczema sufferers everywhere as he presses his finger into the corners of the container, chasing out the dregs. He spreads it over his fingers as well as he can and he turns his face away, looking down to the ground, as he reaches behind himself and slips a finger inside. He doesn’t want to see this guy’s face as he stretches himself open as well as he can, because he can feel his eyes on him. He bites his bottom lip as he pushes in a second finger, scissors his fingers a little; it’s uncomfortable and the angle is all wrong, but it’s all the prep he gets before the guy grabs his arm and pushes him around.

                “Alright,” he says gruffly, showing Dean forward until his hands meet the countertop, “that’s plenty.” He grabs hold of Dean’s hips, and the teenager has just enough time to curl his fingers tightly on the stone counter before he thrusts forwards into him. It doesn’t feel good; there’s no fairytale moment where suddenly he connects emotionally with the man fucking him and they share a beautiful experience. He’s rough and too thick for the tiny amount of preparation Dean gave himself. There isn’t enough lube and the guy makes no attempt to be gentle to make up for that fact. He slams his hips forwards, and all Dean can hear is the steady _slap slap slap_ of skin on skin as the guy’s balls hit his backside. It’s joined quick enough by groans and a steady litany of “oh, yeah- oh yeah. Yeah, that’s right, that’s right you little whore-“

                He grits his teeth and thinks of Sam. Nothing funny; he just imagines his little brother’s smiling face when Dean hands him a four pack of Oreos after school, or when he tells him they _can_ stop by the arcade on the way back to the motel; all those things cost money, and all those things were denied to Dean when he was Sam’s age. If this is what he has to do to make sure Sam gets to live normally, to never have to worry about whether he can have another helping at dinner when he’s hungry, because today’s food needs to stretch for tomorrow, Dean can take it. His hands are gripping the countertop so hard that his knuckles are aching, but he doesn’t make a sound; just breathes hard and deep, slow; count to four on the inhale, count to four on the exhale.  He’s shoved forward so hard that he almost slams his teeth into the edge of the counter, and he spreads one arm out to the side to spread out the force as he pillows his forehead on his arm instead, eyes screwed tightly closed, toes curling inside his sneakers as he bites his lip to stay silent.

He should have taken the three hundred. _Fuck, fuck fuck fuck-_ He’ll never turn down that amount of money again; he tries to separate out what’s happening to his body from his mind, but the man keeps moaning and cursing, either on purpose to try and encourage Dean into being vocal or without realising he’s doing it- a solid prayer of filth.

“Fuck, oh, fuck yeah- that’s it, that’s it you little slut, take that cock- take it all. You’re my bitch, boy- my little bitch-“ Dean only grunts in return, feeling his thigh muscles beginning to ache from the posture he’s taken, feeling his stomach churning, his lip aching from his teeth crushing around it. He focuses on everything but the steady _slap slap slap_ of skin on skin and the constant litany of encouragement the trucker is keeping up, fingers gripping hard into his hips as his t-shirt slips up to his armpits.

By the time he starts to come Dean is almost desensitized to the burn; has almost numbed himself to what’s happening, and so it doesn’t really seem to surprise him when the guy pulls out, flips the condom off, and jerks himself off with quick strokes, spurting hot streaks over Dean’s back. He waits for the jingle of a belt buckle before he starts to straighten up, but he still feels the man’s hand on his back before he gets all the way up, and when he turns to face the john his jaw is grabbed, and a thumb smears cum over his lips before the guy wipes his hand over Dean’s face, marking him as property. He can see a strand on his eyelash and he can feel his jaw jutting forward in disgust from the force of stopping himself saying anything. He hasn’t been paid yet, and he’s vulnerable; exposed. He doesn’t want to start a fight now. It’s done.

He pulls his jeans up his thighs and doesn’t even try to hide it as he scrubs his face and back as best as he can with a handful of paper towels before pulling his jacket back on. The guy is still watching him as he does it, and so he makes a point of not being coy about what still needs to be done. He puts out his hand, palm up.

“Money.” The single word is ragged, and he receives a smirk before he gets anything else. The trucker reaches into his pocket and pulls out a roll of notes, the way that John hates to see money carried- it’s stupid and bulky; it shows in your pocket. Only a showboating idiot carries his money that way. No matter how it’s held, it all spends the same as far as Dean is concerned, and he refuses to show the stupid pleasure it gives him when he’s handed an extra twenty.

“you’re a good sport, kid,” the man says, looking him over as he wipes his hands off on his own jeans. “I like that. And you got a pretty face.”

“thanks.” The word is bitter and sarcastic, but Dean’s already pocketed the money and he’s fully dressed, so he doesn’t feel as concerned anymore about being polite.  The man laughs.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ bout. How bout you give me a little kiss, ‘fore I leave?”

“How ‘bout you fuck yourself,” Dean says, edging around him, and gets his arm grabbed in the process, twisted just a little too hard. He takes in a deep breath through his nose, shaky with rage, and stares the guy down. “Let go my arm.” A folded note is held up for just a moment before the man jerks forward to steal a kiss. Dean swings a punch almost instantly, but the trucker must have seen it coming, because he’s already leaning back and laughing again as he throws a ten dollar bill, leaving as Dean stoops to pick it up.

A hundred and thirty. It’s not good, but it’s not bad. It’s not ninety. It’s not sufficient payment for the ache in his legs or the burn in his ass, or the sick, sloppy, used feeling that runs through his whole body, but it’s sufficient to make sure they have a room tomorrow night, and to make sure that they won’t be hungry.  Nearly two hundred dollars, all told, for a night’s work, and all it’s cost him is his self-respect. A small enough price to pay, and as he slips back into the motel room Sam is snoring softly, and it feels worth it, almost.

He showers with the bathroom light off; there’s a window above the door and he doesn’t want to wake up Sam. That’s what he tells himself, but it’s mostly because he has no interest in seeing his body. He hurts all over, and that’s enough; he doesn’t need to know anymore. He doesn’t even towel himself off before putting on a t-shirt, boxers, sweatpants, a hooded sweatshirt, pulls the hood up. It feels good to be covered, and he’s exiting the bathroom when he hears a well-known rumble outside the motel room, sees the ceiling bathed in yellow through the shitty motel curtains. He could feel pissed off at his dad for not arriving home six hours ago, but he knows he’ll need the money eventually. For now, he runs to his bed and dives under the covers; it’s already four AM, he has no business being awake, so when John opens the door Dean makes a show of being groggy and wincing against the light.

“What time is it?” he asks, trying to make his voice rough and sleepy as dad pushes the door closed with his heel.

“A little after four,” John whispers back, shrugging his duffle off his shoulder and onto the floor. “Anything to report?” Dean sits up, refusing to wince at the burn doing so elicits, and shakes his head.

“No sir. Sam got all his homework done. He whined a little last night, but nothing bad.”

“How ‘bout you? You take care of everything?” Dean swallows before nodding, though John doesn’t see it, too busy unlacing his boots and sighing as he leans back on the sofa; Dean can see he’s exhausted, and fighting against falling asleep on the couch

“Yes sir. My book report’s done. Everything else has been fine.” John nods as he forced himself up with a groan and shrugging out of his jacket.

“Good boy. Now, outta that bed- I been driving six hours, I’m beat. Get in with your brother.” Dean doesn’t need to be told twice, and he scampers across the gap into the bed beside Sam as John drops his jeans on the floor and slips between the sheets in his boxers, still wearing his shirt. He shivers a little in the cold sheets, and turns to Dean with a look that's resigned to annoyance.  “Boy, this bed’s freezing. If you been sleeping in it I’m a monkey’s uncle. You been outta this room?”

“No sir.”

“But you haven’t been in this bed.” Dean knows it’s worthless arguing.

“No sir.”

“What in God’s name you been doing, then? You got school in the morning- Dean, you know I got my job and you got yours. Mine is the hunt, and yours is looking after you and Sammy. Now how am I supposed to do my job if I gotta worry about you doing yours?” Dean can feel his face burning- he can barely hear John over the ringing in his ears. He’s angry; angry at John, angry at himself, but he swallows it down and nods wordlessly. “If you’re tired you’ll get sloppy, you hear me? And I want you at your best. What if something came after you boys while I was gone? Who’s gonna protect you? Sammy? No. And what’s gonna happen if you fall asleep in class? God’s sake, Dean- use your damn brain. You want the social sniffing around here?” Dean’s staring at his folded hands, trying to fight down the lump in his throat. He shakes his head. “What’s that? I didn’t hear you.”

“ _No sir,_ ” he manages to fight out. John jerks his head to the side, tilting his ear, and Dean forces his voice a little firmer, “No, sir. Sorry sir. I couldn’t sleep, that’s all. I was watching some old movie on the tv. Kinda dozing. I lost track of time. “ John takes a deep breath, pushes a hand through his hair, and sighs, shaking his head as he leans back against the pillow.

“It’s fine. Just use your brain. Honestly, Dean- it’s like sometimes I wonder if you even think about the repercussions of your actions.”

 

 

He stares at the ceiling for a long time before falling asleep, but even so he stays awake all through school the next day. He’s learned his lesson.

 


End file.
